Memoirs
by MorphManiac
Summary: Memoirs are written to ensure that important life events may not be forgotten. As one former dancer of the Moulin Rouge recalls her life, it seems that some events are better left forgotten.


[A/N: This has been in my notebook for a while, so while I'm trying to grow  
some inspiration for "Home not Mine" I decided to go ahead and post this.  
Special thanks to callingyoume, Silver Meteor, Suzy Q (not on ff.net), and  
AngelicAngelette for their excellent beta-ing!]

[Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge. Anyone who says so may find  
themself with a rather large bump on their temple and an empty wallet.  
There are two other phrases in here that I adopted: one from Les  
Miserables, and one from Romeo and Juliet. Don't own those.]

Bon Appetite!

Memoirs  
_By MorphManiac_ __  
  
I.  
When I was young  
I had a vague understanding of the world  
I knew there were high-class citizens  
With their top hats and French cuffs  
and always looking to boost their social standings.  
But there were also the low class  
who lived on the street  
and helped old ladies just to get a  
nickel or two.  
And the middle class, the largest of all,  
whose dwellers range from industry workers  
to bakers.

The early years of my life are so  
fuzzy  
unclear  
and confusing  
that many parts of it-  
I am not sure if I imagined it  
or it truly happened.

My mother-did I have a mother? I suppose I did-lived until my age of ten  
when she died  
I think  
of despair.  
You see  
the green faerie was my father's mistress  
and I remember him as  
loud  
stale  
cold  
and the scars on my wrists from when he was not pleased  
and he  
(daddy please i didn't mean to empty it)  
threw those damn empty bottles at me  
(daddy it's not good for you i was trying to help)  
but he would laugh while I cried  
and cry while I laughed.  
I think he and his mistress ran off  
a while back but  
I don't remember-I was long gone.  
  
My mother once said that the richest woman in the world would be the one to  
free herself from man's claim. It must have been in one of the few times  
she was not tired, because she worked long hours at the  
...work? I do not know.  
But after one night  
(come, whore, take your medicine be a good 'un)  
I had had enough of his green mistress  
and left to the streets.  
  
I do not recall how I came  
to the Moulin Rouge, only that  
I found myself running and running until I  
came to it.  
I'd never been there  
in my life-perhaps it was fate-  
but I think I collapsed before it  
and found myself in a dark room  
with two large woman  
cooing and cawing at me  
(ooo she'sa pretty one)  
(harold will be quite pleased)  
(she looks like a dance-a).  
A funny large man  
like a clown  
met me and asked how I was  
I said  
-politely as I could-  
that I was fine but didn't know where I was.  
He said grandly  
"Welcome to the Moulin Rouge!"  
and Fate held dominance over all.  
  
I was taught to dance by one of the  
stars  
(was she a star? they were all stars to me)  
and she taught me everything she had learned.  
Rehearsals  
were hell.  
new shoes were a treat, and all of us had to wear  
hand-me-downs  
either too big or too small.  
I normally took the small ones.  
One night I was in so much agony  
blood was seeping through my shoes.  
When we were done  
the cast shared a bed and room  
and I registered to a corner of the room.  
But, as more girls poured in, I noticed  
their feet were also torn and beaten.  
A kettle was warmed and we  
soothed each other.  
The black-haired one mentioned Satine.  
  
I believe she said  
"Bloody Satine...if she sniffles, she gets a night off. We dance with the  
flu."  
  
I paid her no mind,  
but it was then my  
dislike  
anger  
torment  
hate  
toward Satine began.  
  
I think we knew that  
she would one day leave us  
and then we would be doomed.  
When the Duke came  
and then the writer  
I knew it was a race for her  
and the battle would surely  
tear the Moulin Rouge apart.  
  
II.  
Satine was Harold's pet  
She knew all the tricks  
(that I myself would never use)  
on men.  
The audience of the Moulin Rouge  
-mainly men-  
were as much a part of the performance as  
we were.  
we were taught to entrance  
and  
entice them  
(come on, _Capitan_, you can wear your shoes)  
but they never wanted me  
(get your dirty slut hands offa me!)  
their prize was Satine.  
Always Satine.  
  
There was a time when a man  
paid me  
I was yet the youngest  
and he was  
(i like to think)  
_interested_ in me  
(Sir, would you care to dance?)  
and I in him.  
{Madame, what is your name?)  
We danced wildly  
colors of  
red  
yellow  
orange  
spinning around us  
I led him out of the hall  
and we kissed  
passionately  
eating each other's souls.  
I giggled.  
(how i giggled)  
He led me to a nearby room  
where he showered me with kisses.  
He tried to move his hands lower  
but I resisted.  
He did it more forcibly  
and I resisted still.  
(moneymoneymoney)  
and we twisted and tumbled  
but he grew impatient  
and with haste  
lust  
greed  
he tore of my costume  
my beautiful costume  
sure it would take a night  
to mend  
but he smiled  
and a reminiscence of my father  
filled my thoughts.  
and after the deed was done  
I learned that men  
were not charming princes.  
  
III.  
Men stopped offering themselves to me after that.  
My dancing partner once said  
(he was male, but I felt dancers were a gender of their own)  
that there was a change in me  
that I was like an angry street cat  
and customers were mice.  
I thanked him for the compliment.  
  
IV.  
I once thought of running away.  
That thought didn't last long.  
  
It was after one of the nights  
when you feel so  
drained  
tired  
exhausted  
that you want to scream  
I'VE HAD IT  
and throw open the front doors  
and run to a church  
to throw yourself upon the ground  
and plead mercy  
(Father take me now!)  
but none comes  
it never comes  
and you  
(and i)  
are all  
forsaken.  
  
V.  
The Rouge is dead.  
I stand in its remains  
as a changed  
wiser  
person.  
  
I left upon the production of  
Spectacular Spectacular  
where I was sure all would fail.  
I am told Satine caught  
a terrible  
incurable  
disease  
while still managing to win the heart and lust  
of a writer and Duke  
(respectively)  
Satine and the writer hid their passion from the other  
but the ill-fated star-crossed lovers  
met their end.  
Satine, dead.  
Writer, devastated.  
Duke, perturbed.  
  
Harold  
with his amazing electricity  
met his end when  
a spark caught a painted set  
and he failed to save the Rouge  
(or himself)  
from burning to the ground.  
  
Only the green faerie remains  
and as I hold it in my hands,  
I see it as a memorial  
to those who do not rest.  
  
-Finite-


End file.
